His car is not damaged.
He did not crash it; he did not kill anyone.
He has done nothing wrong.
His car is pristine.
No different from the truck that had passed.
The auto that had passed.
Not guilty.
He passes through the city.
Nothing has changed.
We’re all still dying stars.
He drives through a checkpoint.
The cops glance sleepily at his car.
Another rich man’s car.
He almost gives them a salute.
* * *
—
Now slow along the quieter streets, into an oak-shrouded service lane, bringing the vehicle to a stop, turning the lights off, gripping the wheel.
Now what?
He fumbles with the door. Climbs out, bends double and vomits. A few rickshaw pullers are sleeping. Some dogs are barking. Nothing more.
He finds water in the door pocket, rinses, spits, climbs back in.
Looks at both of them, Neda and Gautam.
Gautam closest to him, smashed in the face, bleeding from his nose, his contemptuous face serene in spite of it all.
Neda, makeup smeared, head tilted back, almost snoring, ugly looking, mouth open to bare her teeth. They could be two kids, exhausted from a big day out.
He can hear sirens. But the city carries on.
And what has he done?
He glances at the passenger seat and sees Ajay’s gun.
What has he done?
He reaches in and takes it, feels its weight in his hand, opens the rear door on Gautam’s side, gently presses it to the flesh of Gautam’s cheek. It would be so easy to pull the trigger.
No.
His hand is beginning to shake. He is fearful of the weight, he suddenly can’t remember if there’s a bullet in the chamber. His brain is fogging, shutting down. With great force of concentration he removes the clip, places it in his pocket, pulls back the slide, and ejects the bullet from the chamber. It falls into the road, rolls in the dark.
Fuck.
Should he get on his hands and knees?
No.
It’s not about time. It’s about dignity.
He searches Gautam’s pockets and pulls out two baggies.
He climbs back into the driver’s seat, puts the unloaded gun and clip in the glove box. And in the sulfur glow of the streetlight he uses his car key to scoop out a large bump of coke.
* * *
—
Sunny dials the number.
And Tinu wakes. Groans.
“What is it?”
He’s trembling. “There was an accident.”
Tinu takes a pause, turns on his bedside lamp. “Tell me.”
“Some people are dead.”
Lights a cigarette. “Who’s dead?”
“People. On the road.”
“Did you kill them?”
“No. It wasn’t me. It was Gautam. He hit them with his car.”
“Are you with the police?”
“No.”
“Where are you?”
“On the road, somewhere else.”
“Far away?”
“Far away. I’m safe.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“How many dead?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you sure they’re dead?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s Gautam?”
“With me.”
“In your car? Or his?”
“In mine.”
“Where’s his?”
“Back on the road. It’s a wreck.”
Tinu puts out the cigarette. “OK, is this right? He crashed his car, you pulled him out, you left with him in yours. Is this how it is?”
“Yes.”
“And no one else saw you? No crowd, no scene?”
“Nothing.”
“Where did it happen? Where exactly?”
“On the Inner Ring Road, by Nigambodh Ghat.”
“Which car of his?”
“His Mercedes.”
“And you’re in?”
“The Toyota. The Highlander.”
“Who else is there with you?”
“Gautam, me, this girl.”
“Neda?”
The pause of fear. “Yes.”
“And where’s Ajay?”
Sunny braces himself.
“In the car.”
“In the car with you? Let me speak to him.”
Silence.
“Put him on the phone . . .”
“I can’t.”
“Sunny . . .”
“He’s in the car on the road.”
It sinks in.
“You left him there?”
Eyes closed. “I had to.”
“Is he alive?”
“I made him drink whisky . . .”